Don Q. Public

By John Opsand Sutherland

When Don Q. Manchego, a middle-aged janitor in Ohio, takes the hero identity of Don Q. Public, his circle of comic book geek friends (including Felonious Monk, Bad Feng Shui, and the ever-wise Herm-Aphrodite) are concerned about public embarrassment and the potential of physical harm coming to their friend. The situation is not improved by the constant presence of the charming but clueless enabler, Pancho Sanchez, who imagines he is Don's sidekick.

But it becomes more difficult to talk Don out of his adventures when they actually succeed, despite a complete lack of superpowers, or even advanced skills.

When Don meets and idealizes a truly unattainable woman (a terminal cancer patient), his heroic ideals are pushed to an even greater extreme, and his friends must concoct a scheme that appeals to his sense of heroism in order to keep him alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Opsand Sutherland
• Release date: Mar 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301783328

John Opsand Sutherland

John Opsand Sutherland is a writer of video games, short and long fiction, poetry, and screenplays. Obviously, there are some focus issues here. He lives with too many cats and a tolerant woman in Seattle.

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DON Q. PUBLIC

by

John Opsand Sutherland

Copyright 2013 John Sutherland

Cover art by Alex Madrigal

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1

Janitors have the power of invisibility.

Donald Queso Manchego rolled his trash cart along the gray carpet past the gray cubicles, each occupied by a gray suit. And Don, in his bright blue jumpsuit, went completely unnoticed by the gray world.

This was perfect; this was like magic. He could walk through the midst of them, his trash barrel filled with anything – any thing – and they would never know.

He experimented with eye contact, looking directly at a stumpy man with a red necktie. It was as if he'd thrown out a force field, the man avoided his stare so pointedly. Don continued the experiment on several more of the white collars, varying the genders and body types of his subjects to keep his science thorough.

He could have been doing cartwheels while juggling fish. It just didn't matter.

If they had been able to see him at all, they would have beheld a gangly man of medium height, just past the age of 50, whose testosterone had thinned his hair more than it had bulked his biceps. His acquaintance with middle age no doubt added to his invisibility, for what self-respecting older man would still be working in such a profession? Certainly no one educated, or worthy of conversational engagement. To risk a friendly Hello with such a person might lead to the awkward clinging of a socially starved lunatic.

It was well after five o'clock, so the people left at the office were the ambitious ones, with something to prove to their masters. The sun was recently gone from the December sky, and the solstice darkness made the occasional string of Christmas lights in the office windows all the more festive.

He rolled his cart up to the large double doors that sealed off the executives from the lesser white collars. He pulled the zip line that held his access card to his belt and ran the card through the electronic reader. The lock clicked loudly in affirmation, and he pulled the handle to open the door, awkwardly pushing his trash cart through with his other hand.

The ability to walk through walls; that wasn't bad, either.

Some young vice president sat with his feet up on his large desk, crumpling sheets of paper into balls, and shooting them at the imaginary basketball hoop that was his wastebasket, an arena of cheering fans echoing in his mind, and escaping unconsciously through his mouth, every time he got one in.

Don shook his head. The rich believe they are independent, but most of them never will be. To be wealthy and to exercise privilege requires a servant class, even if it isn't called such a thing in America. To have a servant class is to have a gap in the golden armor of prosperity, and it was through that gap that Don strolled.

The access card would only get him so far. His ultimate destination lay beyond the official boundaries of Fifth Third Bancorp, here at Fifth Third Center at One Seagate. Don had always marveled at the coincidence of descending odd numbers here at the tallest building in Toledo. It must mean something.

At the end of the hallway, the steel security doors sealed off the rest of the building. It was dark, and the hallway turned three corners before he reached the doors. Don knew he could work patiently, in seclusion, because the security camera was disabled.

He had knocked out the camera the previous night. This was accomplished not with any high-tech fiddling with wires, nor with the placing of false images into the video feed, as one might see in a heist movie. It was good old black spray-paint on the lens. That, and his faith in human complacency. There had been, apparently, no response to this blackout of what was normally darkness anyway. No one cared about an empty hallway.

He set his flashlight at an appropriate angle on the edge of the cart so it would illuminate his small work area. He held his tension wrench in his left hand and his pick in his right, took a deep breath, and set to work imitating a key.

Lock picking requires a maddening amount of patience and concentration, two qualities that Don did not naturally possess in abundance. So what drove him to this? What gave him the inspiration to kneel by the dim light with his two tiny tools, to work the pins up, one by one, in a space that would drive a pediatric dentist to self-immolation?

The answer lies in the unsavory influence he had been subjected to since childhood: that most decadent corrupter of many generations of our nation's youth, the comic book.

Even those electronic forms of time-wasting, so recently born, may trace their dark roots directly back to this slippery devil's pulp. From these pages his mind was filled with images of the most unrealistic heroes, all seemingly taking the same brand of steroids, if their rippling triceps were any clue. They spoke inane lines of dialogue to villains who looked like stony burn victims interbred with fish, while maidens looked on, pinched at the waist so severely that their displaced body mass immediately filled out their breasts.

If only every industrial accident resulted in super powers instead of cancer and atrophy! If only there were gods and aliens from other humanoid worlds, set to saintly good works that inevitably involved fistfights!

And this was just the general picture; prolonged exposure to the minor details was enough to scramble any brain. There was a Nordic deity who kept proclaiming, I say thee nay! in order to prompt a reversal of fortunes in battle. A man who would be all-powerful had a deathly severe allergy to a glowing green rock, just so his evil antagonist would stand a chance. A man with bizarrely bendable limbs once announced, And I shall be called Mister Fantastic. Mister Fantastic? How about Stretchy or Elasto-man?

And the Silver Surfer? Why?

And yet, these tales were Don's great love, inspiring him beyond appreciation, to the point of emulation. This was what gave him the patience to study, practice, and now execute the picking of complex locks as only a small part of his Master Plan. For to take such two-dimensional realms as one's intellectual fertilizer must lead to a brain addled with small frames bursting with color and improbability.

The last tumbler spring defeated, the steel door swung open at Don's push. He marveled at his own success, doubting it for an instant, and then poked his head through the doorway to view the forbidden stairs.

He stepped out of his janitorial jumpsuit, leaving himself in anonymous street clothes, and left the uniform on the edge of the trash cart that he would not be taking with him.

After what seemed like too many steps up, he opened the door to a splendorous sight, made all the more exotic by the illumination of the wintery moonlight through the abundant glass. It was the former executive offices of Owens-Illinois, which made the currently used suites below seem like paupers' shacks. The furniture was all gone now, but from his knowledge of the company's history, Don could picture the slabs of rare pernambuco wood and alabaster that must have filled these palatial spaces in the old days. Even for the most entitled corporate wastrel, these rooms were now considered too expensive to maintain. And no wonder. They had room here to breed elephants.

But the decadence of the past was not Don's objective. He needed a rooftop.

He pushed open the final door to the observation deck and felt the sharp, frigid bite of winter strike his face deliciously. It was from here that he would look out over the city. His city. His Toledo.

As he strode to the edge of the precipice, Don half-expected a swelling of soundtrack music. The vista he took in as he peered down was breath-taking. His breath having been taken, he backed up a step to re-gather it. He had not expected his visceral reaction to this moment to include vertigo.

Is there a way, Don asked himself, to use acrophobia to one's heroic advantage? He hadn't yet solidified his hero identity; this was all still in development, so the possibilities were wide open. So far, his official title was still Janitor.

He sucked more cold oxygen into his lungs in case his brain needed an extra supply, and peered over the side again. Hmm, better this time, though still a little finger-tingling. Then an odd thought struck him: this place sure could use some gargoyles. He knew better, in his logical mind, than to expect such a thing on a modern glass-and-metal skyscraper, but still, he couldn't help his disappointment.

Don took another look over the edge and saw the bug-sized cars, the pin dots that were pedestrians. He'd seen heroes looking down on cities they protected from gargoyle-fringed skyscrapers, but he was sure they must have had a better view than this. And binoculars were so unseemly. But seriously, could he tell a burglar from a baker up here? His disappointment was flavored with a dash of panic. Was this all wrong? Had he taken all of this trouble to get to this height, only to have the real world crush his visions yet again?

Then Don did what he did best. He gathered these small let-downs from the outside world and washed them away with something greater: his own destiny. The rising tide within him, his own eternal spring, reassured him against all reason. This is what a true hero does, he told himself, no matter how harsh the reality. He exhaled in relief, holding his arms out to his sides and bounced on his toes, like a platform diver preparing for an Olympic triple flip.

Don didn't see the security guard until he was nearly upon him.

Whoa! said the guard, more in shock than in command. He leapt back when he saw Don, pointed his flashlight, and reached for his walkie-talkie as though it would protect him.

And woe to you, sir, answered Don, turning. He wondered why security guards were either frail men in their 70s who looked like they should be helped across the street by boy scouts, or 19-year-old thin pale potential white supremacists named Wade.

This security guard was of the latter variety, and in fact, Don observed, his nametag said Wade.

What are… what…

What am I doing up here? Don offered helpfully. Just watching over the city.

Just watching… This is a restricted area!

Yes, said Don. That would explain the locks.

Even in the relative darkness, Don could see the guard's milky complexion flushing with red.

What do you want? demanded Wade. You a jumper?

Do you meet many jumpers up here? asked Don.

Wade said nothing, from which Don drew a conclusion: You've never seen anyone up here before, have you?

You don't know that, said Wade, effectively admitting the charge.

Don sympathized with the young man, and offered some comfort.

Don't worry. I'm not a jumper, Don reassured him. I'm a…

Don almost said hero, but stopped himself.

I'm an ordinary citizen, just like you, he said instead.

Wade searched for the aggression that he daydreamed about so often. In those visions, he was taller, more muscular, and much hairier. He would bark from beneath the thick mustache he could not yet grow, throwing perps like this to the ground with one hand while drawing his heavy nightstick with the other.

But these dreams were only a long-term plan, and they had never been tested in the crucible of reality. This present situation, in which he found himself hotly frozen in panic, was not going well. He tried to pull himself together, to give himself courage with Nietzsche quotations. Yes, this would make him stronger, if he could only survive it. And he must learn, be better prepared for the next time. Yet the leg-melting continued, and perspiration all over. And he really had to pee.

Wade tried his best to ignore his failing body functions, and made a mental note to supplement his Administration of Justice courses with some physical conditioning.

While he focused on the need for survival to administer justice another day, a new possibility sprang to life in his head, one he hoped desperately could be true.

Don watched the gears whir in Wade's head, and then saw him cock his head to the right side like the RCA Victor dog, as though weighted with a lopsided idea. Don's head involuntarily cocked to the left, in mirror imitation.

Are you from the firm? Wade asked.

I don't know what you mean, assured Don.

This was the giveaway Wade was looking for. He smiled, sure now that he was in on the trick. They both straightened their necks simultaneously.

It's a test, I know, said Wade, with renewed confidence. You're like a secret shopper, but without the shopping, here to see if I can follow procedure.

Procedure?

Don't confront. Calmly redirect, Wade recited.

Pardon me?

You seem to like tall buildings, sir. Might I suggest one that is almost as tall? The Fiberglas Tower, right over there. Behold, its magnificence.

Wade's arm sprang up as stiffly as his speech, as though released by a rusty switch, pointing in the direction of the other tower. That building was also a local legend throughout northern Ohio, with its deliberately incorrect brand-named spelling and its famous commercial failure. The awkward motion was a little too late to match his words, which had been spoken with the nasal timbre of a failed sales clerk. Don gave the youth credit for trying.

Also, he had a point about the Fiberglas Tower; Don might indeed want something not quite as tall. He thought of the moving specs that had dampened his morale only moments earlier, and realized that this Wade was actually an agent of destiny.

Sir, you are a godsend, said Don. I shall follow your advice.

Wade was stunned at the success of his technique. This being the first time he had tried it, he wasn't sure how it would go in the field.

Then he remembered: secret shopper from the firm. And he was less impressed with himself. He was relieved, all the same. His ordeal was essentially over. He fast-forwarded to his goals of weight-lifting and mustache-growing, and maybe getting more serious about his martial arts training, which had thus far been stalled at the stage of Chuck Norris observation.

So, uh, said Wade, now I just, I go back to watching the monitors? And you let yourself out?

Don wasn't sure what to make of this. Did the guard recognize his hero identity, and that they were both, in their own ways, deputized officers of the law? Not that Don had been officially deputized, not yet. And Don wasn't in a hero costume.

And yet, to be recognized by a uniformed guard as someone with special status – that must mean something.

So it was true. Don was not a proud man, but obviously, some extraordinary quality must be emanating from him, enough to be recognized by a complete stranger.

A godsend indeed. This entire adventure, Don decided, was the unfolding of destiny.

He realized that he and Wade had been staring silently at one another for god knows how long. Don nodded, though he